


Not My Circus

by ThornyRose42



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Batfamily Feels, Maybe spoilers?, Nightwing 50, POV First Person, Swearing, so much swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 09:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16194740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornyRose42/pseuds/ThornyRose42
Summary: Richard Grayson -- formerly Nightwing -- is now known as Gray and wants nothing to do with his life before he got shot.  When a girl washes up on a beach in Bludhaven Harbor, he may have some tough choices to make.Please read Nightwing 50 before reading this particular piece.  There may be some spoilers.  Not affiliated with DC.  Just had this story pop in my head after reading the comic.





	Not My Circus

It’s too fucking hot for October. 

I wouldn’t know.  Bea and Jeff do, and they insist that this is the hottest October in living memory.  The temperature was 87 degrees Fahrenheit today.  It’s going to be 90 tomorrow.  This far north, that’s a goddamn rarity. 

Complicating matters are the rolling blackouts that started after Labor Day.  The mayor’s instituted a curfew.  It’s digging into my earnings and limiting my sleeping spaces.  People aren’t leaving their homes at night, and they aren’t leaving long enough for me to slip in and sleep somewhere more comfortable than the backseat of my cab.  I’m losing business at night due to the curfew, but I’m getting some business during the day since most people don’t want to be caught driving their own cars when the traffic lights go out. 

I pull a drink from my flask.  It’s water.  I want whiskey, but I don’t have enough cash to afford it.  I’ve been spending most of my poker winnings on fixing the dents in my cab.  I’ve had more than ten collisions since the blackouts started.  I’m lucky; none were fatal.  Burl’s son is in the ICU.  He got hit by a driver who didn’t see him crossing the street at dusk.  I gave Burl one night’s gambling winnings to help him out.  He hasn’t been to work since.  Dad of the Year material, beyond a shadow of a doubt. 

My cab’s parked illegally under the boardwalk down by Bludhaven Harbor.  The Bludhaven PD has more to worry about due to the rise in crime since the blackouts started.  No one knows who’s responsible.  No one knows how to stop it.  Pam says there has to be something wrong with the computers that run the power plants.  Someone’s turning the entire fucking plants off and on like a toddler with a light switch.  She’s started adding little battery-operated tea lights to her diner’s tables.  Cozy and practical.  Just like her, oddly enough.

I have to park it here to prevent someone from jacking it in the middle of the night.  All the crazies are out in full force.  Jeff says Bludhaven’s gotten worse than Gotham since…

Well… nothing I can do about it.  Not my circus.  Not my monkeys. 

God, I want whiskey.  I want something to stop the constant jackhammering in my head.  Something to justify my own, personal blackouts.  People are more likely to excuse odd behavior if they think you’re drunk.  They don’t care if you’re missing a piece of your brain. 

It’s night now.  It was evening before.  I think I’ve just lost a few hours.  Again. 

I can hear rumbles of thunder.  Storms are coming in.  They’ve been getting stronger due to the heat.  I should move from my spot on the beach, but I like to come down here and watch the boats go in and out of the harbor.  I often wonder where they’re going.  Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve gone outside of Bludhaven and Gotham. 

There’s no use in wishing for things I can’t remember.  

There’s a strange sound coming from the shoreline.  It sounds like someone’s swimming.  Who’s dumb enough to swim in the harbor at this time of night? 

I go to my cab and get my flashlight.  It’s a heavy duty, black, metal monstrosity that I got at an army surplus store for cheap.  It saved my life when I got mugged two weeks ago.  I beat the guy’s ass with it.  No idea how I knew exactly how to beat the guy’s ass.  I know I’m good at fighting.  It’s not much, but it’s something. 

I turn on the flashlight and head back to my favorite spot on the beach.  The splashing has turned to slight grunts, moans, coughing, and sputtering.  I’m taking a risk, turning this thing on.  Anyone can see where I am now.  It’s not safe to be in Bludhaven at night anymore. 

The power’s out again.  I can’t see any lights from the casinos on the other side of the harbor.  They’re hurting too, and pressuring the mayor to get this shit fixed.  This beach is unsafe.  Whoever they are, they’re probably going to need help. 

I’m going to investigate.  Then, I’ll call the cops.  Let them deal with it.  Not my circus.  Not my monkeys.

It’s a girl. 

Damn, she’s fine. 

Her hair is red, and the water has made it clump into strands I want to run my fingers through.  I already know what it will feel like.  She’s fit too.  She has a nice ass, and I bet –

Stop.  Girl.  Trouble.  Don’t be a perv. 

“Hello?”  My voice sounds hoarse.  I take another disappointing swig from my flask.  “Are you ok?”

The girl has flipped over and I start when I see the bright yellow bat on her chest.  Shit.  Bat.  Girl.  It’s Batgirl.  I thought the Bats only operated in Gotham.  The hell is she doing here?

I clear my throat and ask again. 

“Oh shit, it’s you,” she grunts as she flips back onto her stomach. 

I should just walk away and call the cops.  Let them handle it.  Then again, they can’t handle anything anymore.  Crime’s shot up to the point where Jeff’s got his shotgun visible behind his bar.  Bea’s carrying pepper spray and a .22.  I’ve taken her home pro bono multiple times – she’s a friend and I don’t want anything more on my conscience than what I’ve got.

Batgirl’s still army crawling her way up the beach.  I can’t leave her here.  She’ll get raped.  I can still hear Bea crying from when she told us about her assault ten years ago after getting drunk on the anniversary.  I may not want anything to do with this superhero shit, but no one deserves that.  Not if I can help it.

There’s something wrong.  Batgirl should be using her legs to help her move up the beach, but she’s not. 

“Look,” she says as she collapses again.  “I… think I’ve got this handled.  You may want to clear out of here.”  She pulls a gizmo from her belt and presses a button.  There’s a small LED light at the end of it.  The light stays off.  “Oh no,” I hear her whisper.  The whisper becomes tinged with panic the more she repeats it.  She flips onto her back and starts laughing hysterically. 

No, she’s not laughing.  Not really.  It’s that odd laugh-cry thing that women do when everything has gone to shit and they’re trying to hold onto their last thread of self-control.  “Okay,” she says, “Okay.  Okay.” 

I don’t know who she’s trying to reassure:  me or herself. 

“Look,” I say dumbly.  I really should just walk away.  “is there someone you can call?”

Batgirl pulls her mask up enough to rub her eyes, then pulls in back down.  I swear, there’s something about her that is oddly familiar.  “My phone is in the ocean.  And my wheelchair’s in Gotham.”

Wheelchair?  Batgirl doesn’t need a wheelchair.  All of the pictures and film of her that I’ve seen on TV shows that she can walk.  “What happened?”  I squat down beside her.  I move the beam so she can see my face and I can see hers.

“Murphy’s Law, Gray.  Everything that can go wrong has gone wrong and I’m royally fucked.”  She struggles to sit up.  She pulls off her mask to rub at her eyes again.  She sniffs and pulls it back down.  “You still drive a cab?”

“Yeah.”

“Is twenty bucks enough to get me to Gotham?”  At my look, she mutters, “Didn’t think so.  Look, I’ve got twenty bucks.  If you can take me to the Bludhaven PD, or the bus station, or the nearest convenience store with a pay phone, I’d appreciate it.”

None of those options are good, frankly.  The BPD doesn’t give a shit anymore.  They’re too busy to help this girl, and I’m sure that the crazies they’ve got in there will spread the news of her misfortune all over.  Leaving her at the bus station at this time of night would be even worse than just leaving her on the beach.  And convenience stores don’t have pay phones anymore.  Even if they did, they’re all closed because of the curfew. 

“Depends on where in Gotham.”

“Honestly, nowhere you want to go.  Really.  The bus station’s fine.  Whichever one’s closest so I have enough money for a bus ticket home.”

I guess this is my circus now.  Shit.  She can’t go on a bus dressed like that.  “What’s the address.”

“He’s going to kill me,” she mutters before rattling off the address.  It’s in Gotham Heights.  I don’t know how I know.  I hate that.  The numbers and address also sound familiar too.  The thought’s gone before I can really process it.

“It’ll be $20.”

She nods.  “I hate asking, but… I literally need a lift.”  She looks down at her hands, embarrassed.  At this point, I’d look like a right douchebag if I criticized her.  I get it.  I gently place my hands just under her rear and her knees.  She puts her arms around my neck.  This feels familiar.  Her breath on my neck.  The smell of her hair.  The weight of her in my arms.

It shouldn’t matter to me.  But it does.  It does.  I don’t want to forget this part, at least.  It’s been a while since I’ve let someone in this close.  It’s been a while since someone completely trusted me. 

I struggle a bit and put her in the front seat of the cab.  Burl told me that’s where friends sit.  Customers sit in the back.  Plus, I can get directions from her.  My phone’s also shot.  I haven’t been able to charge it.  Jeff sometimes lets me charge my phone in his bar.  Burl warned me against constantly charging my phone in the cab.  He says it will run down the battery.  Considering my limited funds, I can’t afford to replace that and keep up my insurance.  God, I can’t wait until these fucking blackouts end.  All of them. 

I know where the cops are going to be stationed to catch people breaking curfew.  I have to take a roundabout way to get on the freeway to Gotham.  Batgirl’s sitting in the front seat, staring out of the window.  She’s not talking much, except to give directions.  It’s a fairly straightforward drive. 

The silence is killing me. 

I pluck up enough nerve to ask, “So, what exactly happened?”

“Does it really matter?” she replies sullenly.

I honestly don’t know how to respond to that.  It shouldn’t matter to me.  She’s a complete stranger.  But it does now.  Shit.  Sonovabitch.  “I’m driving to Gotham Heights in the middle of the night with a cape in my front seat.  Yeah, an explanation would be nice.”

She sighs.  “I was working on a case, hoping to close it, and he – this guy named Wyrm – got the jump on me.  Got into my brain and managed to turn my implant off.”

“Implant?”

“I was shot a few years ago,” she says tiredly.  Like she’s told this story a million times and doesn’t want to have to rehash it.  I can relate.  “In the spine.  Partially severed the spinal nerve.  Not enough to completely kill all sensation below the belt but enough to stop me from walking.  I got an implant put in my head a few years ago that gave me the ability to walk.  Wyrm’s an astral projection of the Dark Net.  He controls computers.  I should have known that he could do something like this, but I didn’t really think he could.”  She sighs and shakes her head.  “He attacked me through my phone.  I tossed the phone in the ocean but it was too late.  He got into my brain, walked me off the edge of the ship, turned off my implant, then vanished.  I swam to Bludhaven.”

Damn.  This girl has balls.  I’m impressed.  That’s Olympic level swimming.  “Did you ever get over it?”

“Over what?”

“Being shot?”

She pauses.  “No,” she says softly.  “You don’t get over it.  Not completely.  You just learn to live with it.”

We drive in silence for a while.  My head’s jackhammering again.  I pull out my flask and take a swig.

“Are you drunk?” she asks nonchalantly.

“No, it’s just water.  Can’t afford whiskey right now.”

“Good.  You drink too much.”

There.  Right there.  Something clicks for me.  Batgirl knew my name.  She used it on the beach.  She knows that I drink.  She knew I drove a cab. 

I never told her any of that. 

“How do you know my name?” I can feel anger bubbling in my chest.  I grip the steering wheel tighter.  I don’t want to flip out here, but it scares me.  Being known by someone unknown.  “I never told you my name or that I drove a cab.  How did you know that?”  Do I know her?  How do I know her?  There’s only one redhead that I know and I don’t even really – 

No.  Fucking.  Way. 

Batgirl smiles sadly and pulls off her mask.  “We’ve met before,” she says.  I glance over, and Barbara is sitting next to me.  Barbara is Batgirl.  Barbara is Batgirl. 

_Barbara is Batgirl._

She looks out the window as I’m reeling.  “What was I to you?” I whisper. 

“Does it matter?” she says bluntly.  “You’re happy.  You’ve made a life for yourself.  And yes, there are parts of it that I don’t like.  But I get it,” she says with a side-eyed look, “not wanting to be reminded of who you used to be.  I really do.”

“You could have died tonight.”

“You could die tonight too.  Car accident, overdose on alcohol, run afoul of a pissed off gambler,” she shrugs.  “You made yourself clear the last time we talked.  You want nothing to do with me or anything else from your past.  After tonight, I won’t be your problem anymore.  Besides, it’s not like you’ll remember this conversation anyway.”

That’s a low blow.  It’s low and cruel and she knows it.  The bitch of it is:  she’s not wrong.  I did essentially tell her to go fuck herself the last time we talked several months ago.  I literally burned my past and everything in it.  Metaphorically including her. 

I have nothing to say to that.  We drive in silence.  As I get closer to the address, she speaks. 

“There’s a buzzer at the gate.  Someone will meet me there.  I’ll send what I owe to your company and include your medallion number.”

“I told you, the fare was $20.”

“You left your meter on.”

Damn.  She’s right.  I thought I turned that off.  Too late now, I’m almost at the address.  I sigh.  Part of me wants her out of my cab and out of my life.  Another part of me wants to apologize for burning every bridge without figuring out where it led first.  “I’ll take you to the front door.” 

She looks at me funny.  “The gate is fine.”

“It’s late, it’s dark, and hoity-toity neighborhood or not, shit happens.” 

She sighs.  “The gate is fine.”

She’s starting to piss me off.  “I’m not dumping you onto the damn sidewalk.  You get in my cab, you become my responsibility.”

She scoffs at that.  “Yeah, sure.”

The gates are massive, wrought iron hulks.  There’s some sort of fancy script lettering that I can’t read in the dark.  The skies have opened up, and a torrential downpour has begun.  Yeah, no fucking way am I leaving her in front of the damn gate in this. 

“Push the button.  An old guy is going to answer.  Tell him to bring my special equipment.  He knows what it is.”

“Bring special equipment to the front door.  Got it.”  I add the last part to spite her.  She glares. 

I push the button.  A mechanical voice with an English accent crackles through the speakers.  I relay Barbara’s message.  There’s a buzz and the gate opens.  I pull into the large, concrete driveway.  The house is fucking massive. 

I know this house.   

Lightning cracks and I can see a large oak tree that’s missing a branch.  I remember doing aerial somersaults off of that branch.  I broke my wrist doing that once.  Eventually, the branch was knocked down in a storm. 

That’s the statue I accidentally decapitated with a frisbee.  It’s still missing its head. 

And there!  I used to pretend to be a tightrope walker on that garden wall!  It would scare the crap out of –

Alfred.

That’s the voice.  The guy from the gate.  Alfred!  He would make hot chocolate in the winter and set off fireworks for the Fourth of July.  He tried to teach me how to cook, but stopped when I moved out and… became Nightwing. 

This is my home.  This is where I lived after my parents died. 

I want to cry. 

Why didn’t they look for me?  Look out _for_ me?

Barbara looked for me.  She looked for me because… she wanted me to come home.  And I told her to go fuck herself.

I am crying.  I can feel it.  I can feel the tears building in the corners of my eyes, the pressure in my sinuses.  My head is pounding again. 

“That’s why I wanted you to drop me off at the front gate,” Barbara says sadly from the passenger’s seat.  Her voice is thick and heavy.  She knew.  This brave, strong, cruel woman knew it would hurt me and she tried to warn me.  Damn her. 

I pull under the port-cochere, turn off the car, and get out of the driver’s seat to help Barbara out of the car.  She’s got her mask in her hands.  Sure enough, Alfred is there with a wheelchair at the ready.  He’s concerned.  I catch a quick look of shock on his face before it returns to the usual British stoicism. 

I have a choice to make here.

I can drop her off, ignore Alfred, head back to Bludhaven, and pretend that tonight was just another fare.  That would be easy.  I burned my bridges.  I lost my friends from my past.  They can keep on keeping on like I don’t exist.  That would be easy, wouldn’t it?  Leave them to their mess.  Leave them to the world-ending problems that I can’t help them with anymore.

Looking at Alfred… I don’t know if I can do that.  I know who he is, what he means – meant – means? – to me.  He raised me.  He and…

Bruce.

Jason.  Oh, God.  Jason.  He shows up in my nightmares, sometimes.  I didn’t have a name for him until now. 

Donna and Wally – He’s dead, I know he is and I want to scream – and Roy – he’s dead too, oh God, he was shot to death – and Kory who cried on my shoulder when we found out. 

There’s a little teenage boy whose face I can see but whose name I can’t remember.  I know that he is – was – is – precious to me. 

And Barbara.  Who I remember more and more each day, but try not to dwell on. 

My family.  My friends. 

The bridges I burned. 

I’ve been on my own for months now, maybe even a year.  I have a job.  I have a life.  I’m even working on some of the puzzles I find floating around Bludhaven.  The puzzles that the cops can’t or won’t solve.  I’m still good at puzzles.  Svoboda’s on my radar, and I’ve slipped her tips more than once.  She gets credit for the arrests, and I…

I’m ok. 

I could greet Alfred by his name and apologize for cutting him out.  I don’t want to be a part of the caped life anymore.  I don’t think I can, at least physically.  Can I still be a brother?  Can I still be a son?  That I can do, I think.  I’ve lived on my own long enough that talking about the time before may not hurt as much.  I was who I was.  I am who I am. 

“Gray,” Barbara says softly.  It’s a small gesture that speaks volumes.  She used to call me Dick.  That’s who I was.  Gray is who I am.  “Are you ok?”

I must have blacked out and opened the door while I was thinking.  I’m standing between her and Alfred.  I pick her up.  Belatedly, I realize that there is a wheelchair ramp going up the steps into the house.  It’s on the side.  I turn and look at Alfred. 

“Her implant was turned off,” I tell him as I walk toward the house. 

He nods.  I place Barbara in the chair as gently as I can.  “Thank you, sir, for your kindness.  I’ll make sure your fare is paid if she was unable to do so.  If you could wait right here –”

“Alfred, I,” my mouth stops working.  He’s going to say no.  He’s going to give me my money and shut the door in my face.  I’m dead to them.  I have been for months.  I should walk away.  I should leave all of this, all of them, behind.  I did it before.  I can do it again.

Why does the thought hurt, then? 

Barbara has wheeled her way into the house.  She’ll tell him about tonight.  I have no doubt about that.  Alfred is looking at me, waiting for me to continue. 

“Alfred…” I drop my head.  Come on, dummy.  It’s not that hard:  _I would like to come inside and talk for a minute, if that’s ok?_   You kept your speech after you were shot in the head.  You don’t have ataxia.  Fucking talk.  Hell, shorten the fucking thing:  _May I come inside?  Please?_

I can’t talk because I’m crying.  My throat has seized up.  Tears are rolling down my cheeks.  God, this is embarrassing.  I should just go.  I should just go. 

“Would you like to stay for a moment… Gray?” Alfred asks softly.  “I can put the kettle on.”

I nod.  When I look up, Alfred has tears in his eyes too.  I want to hug this man.  I want to feel safe and secure and _grounded_ in a way that I haven’t felt in a long time.  I black out for a minute and he’s hugging me.  He’s thinner, older, than he is in my head.  His cologne is the same.  I only hope that he’ll still like, if not love, the man I am now. 

“I knew,” he says softly, “that you’d come home when you were ready.  I know you’ve had some adventures since we last spoke.  I’d love to hear about them.” 

He puts his arm around my shoulder.  I lock my car using the fob – force of habit – and we walk in together. 

I know who I am.  I hope that my family can see me for who I am now, not who they remember or want me to be. 

I wasn’t ready to face my family when I first got out of the hospital.  I am now.

I’m Richard Grayson, Gray, Rick, Dick, Richie, Grayson.  I was Nightwing.  I was Dick.  I am Gray.  I am ready to be part of a family again.  

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many feelings about Nightwing 50. On the one hand, I really want to see how this all plays out, and appreciate the work to show the social/emotional toll on an individual with a brain injury and their family. I also like the subtle references to the character's overall history in the comic (ie: his cab number is 1940. Heh heh, yinz think you're slick).
> 
> On the other hand, it's still really jarring to see Dick Grayson become a hard drinking, brawling gambler when there's already one in the family. Ducking what? And who's going to get beaten with the bad luck stick next, Dan Didio? I get it: You've wanted Nightwing dead since the 1990s. Are you happy now? Will you leave him alone? 
> 
> Also, DC, while we're on the subject, please explain to me why Bruce is not going to talk to his eldest son and seems perfectly content with him living as a homeless person? If I stretch my brain, I can kind of get it, but still... a little more explanation than "he needs to become his own man," ok? Ok. 
> 
> I'm getting off of my soapbox now.


End file.
